


Being Nothing

by WatchMyFavesSuffer



Series: Loneliest Boy In New York//Chuck Bass Drabbles [2]
Category: Gossip Girl (TV 2007)
Genre: Emotional Numbness, F/M, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchMyFavesSuffer/pseuds/WatchMyFavesSuffer
Summary: "Chuck watches the blood run with a faint curiosity."Chuck's thoughts and feelings around s05e01 after telling Blair to be with Louis. Numbness, pining, self-injury, all that good stuff.(You don't need to read this series in order btw.)
Relationships: Chuck Bass/Blair Waldorf, Louis Grimaldi/Blair Waldorf, but we hate that
Series: Loneliest Boy In New York//Chuck Bass Drabbles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001481
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Being Nothing

He walks home in a daze, his tie loose, his coat slung over his shoulder. _I did the right thing_ , he keeps thinking, _I did the right thing._ It’s unfamiliar terrain— an unfamiliar concept, really. Chuck Bass is not a good guy, he has very little interest in _the right thing_ , whatever that is. Least of all when it comes to Blair. He would do anything to have her back. He would mow down pedestrians on Fifth Avenue. What did the life of one pompous little prince matter?

But that prince, for whatever reason, made Blair happy. An uncomplicated, domestic, not-that-well-dressed-for-a-prince but, admittedly, _enviable_ kind of happy. Chuck wanted her to have that, and he knew he was incapable of giving it to her.

And even if Chuck has to spend the rest of his life looking at pictures of Princess Blair of Monaco in every tabloid, he would know she loved him. Maybe not as sweet and right as her love for her prince, but so big and so grand a love that thinking about it would make every other relationship seem just a bit small, a bit off-the-rack.

So he knocks back a few glasses of Aultmore 18-year single malt, takes an Ambien and goes to sleep, hoping to stave off the largest waves of grief until morning.

In the morning, he’s prepared to call up his coke dealer, or call around to get some Thai opium flown in to dull the sadness. But, to his surprise, he’s not wracked by loss. He starts for a moment— _Ugh_ , _am I genuinely_ glad _that I was the bigger person?_ The thought spikes horror, but he searches his heart and finds no signs of relief or satisfaction, either. He feels… nothing.

Nate peers in on him, wearing the same face he used on his dad when he visited him in the hospital (Or prison. Or the prison hospital.)

“Heeey, you’re up.” He says softly, like he’s afraid of hurting Chuck’s ears.

Somehow, this neither irritates nor touches him. “Good morning, Nathaniel.” Chuck gets up, ties on his silk robe, and brushes by Nate.

Nate follows him, looking more confused than usual. “So. What are you up to today?” He asks slowly, suspiciously.

“Well, I have some meetings in the morning. Then, I’ll probably grab lunch at the Oyster Bar, if you care to join me.” Chuck says breezily.“Why do you ask?”

“Well… after everything that happened with Blair, I thought you might want a day off? Or, you know, shock therapy?”

“I live in the now, Nathaniel. I’m not thinking about Blair, or her royal paramour.” Chuck opens the fridge, looking for champagne.

When he looks up, Nate is still staring at him, as though waiting for him to fall to his knees, sobbing. “Would you like a mimosa, Archibald, or are you just staring at my gorgeous face?”

Nate laughs gruffly. “Alright then. I’m going to have breakfast with Dan. Call me if you need anything.”

As soon as Nate is safely out the door, Chuck’s smile falls. He wasn’t lying: he really wasn’t thinking of Blair. He tries: he pictures her smile, her feeding the ducks in the Park on a cloudy morning, her picking out jewelry at Tiffany’s, taste impeccable as always. Nothing.

He pictures her with Louis, the sniveling French prick. Still nothing. He thinks of them kissing, of her curtsying to his horrid mother, her walking down the aisle holding the wrong kind of flowers (Blair would only ever hold peonies) but nothing catches, nothing clicks. He thinks of them having sex, and feels a slight twinge of disgust. That’s promising, he supposes.

He showers (turning the water too hot, the shower head to the massage setting.) Then, when he’s shaving in the mirror with Bart’s German straight razor, he nicks himself. It doesn’t sting. He wouldn’t have even realized anything had happened if it weren’t for the trickle of red running down his Adam’s apple. He watches the blood run with a faint curiosity. _Huh._

He’s eating at the Oyster Bar (alone, and not caring) when it occurs to him that the whole feeling nothing, oh-life-is-an-endless-expanse-of-gray thing is a bit of a cliché, and worse, might be a sign that he’s developing some sort of _complex,_ like someone who whines to a therapist or takes pills that are actually _prescribed_ to them. He makes a phone call.

“Hello Chuck. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Seeing as how we’re technically related, could I press you for some intel? Strictly off the record.”

Eric sighs. “Depends what about. I’m really not in the mood to ruin anyone’s life today.”

“I just have a question. What does it feel like to be…I guess the word is _depressed_?” He says the word like it leaves a particularly bitter taste in his mouth.

Chuck can practically hear his eyebrow raise. “Well, in order to be depressed, you first have to be capable of having emotions.”

“Duly noted.” He says drily.

“But I guess it feels like being under a really heavy weight? Or like everything around you has been run through a photocopier so many times that it’s sort of a pale imitation. And I cried a lot. Like, a lot. Why? Is someone we know in some kind of trouble?”

“No, no. I think I was mistaken. But thanks for picking up the phone. I know I’m not always your favorite person.”

“I mean, you _are_ my big brother. Sort of.”

The problem wasn’t that he felt crushed under something heavy or ready to burst into tears. He _wishes_ he did, because as much of a relief as it is to not have to feel the agony of Blair’s absence, feeling nothing at all is starting to get old, very quickly.

He spends nights scrolling through Blair’s Facebook, staring at that perfect face, those beautiful lips that had kissed him and whispered to him and said she loved him all those times. He wills himself to cry, to shout, to punch a window. It feels _wrong_ not to be sad. Disrespectful, almost, like his love for her is slipping away in front of his eyes.

Ironically, he thinks Bart would be proud. Chuck minus human feelings? Now, _that_ is an heir Bartholomew Bass could have believed in. Even the thought of his father— imposing, unsmiling, charcoal-suited— couldn’t make him feel. Being told he wasn’t allowed to visit his mother’s grave, getting yelled at for falling asleep during dinner at the Four Seasons when he was ten, all the memories that used to make his jaw tense up with the effort of fighting back tears— he barely curls a lip.

That summer— the summer of _yes_ , of anything-goes Chuck (which, in all honesty, is not that much different from regular Chuck, just with more smiling and eating solid food) he crashes a motorcycle, jumps off a building, bets more money than he has on him, and asks out people (women, men, people who he’s pretty sure are neither) who are out of his league. He’s a _fun guy_ , for the first time in his life, he gives great advice, he doesn’t worry so much. But he’s so fucking _empty_.

The worst of it— besides the growing sense that feeling nothing meant he was _becoming_ nothing, a well-wrapped box with nothing inside—was the fact that Bart had been right all this time. His emotions made him weak. Worse, they made him stupid, unreliable, irresponsible. This version of Chuck, the one that couldn’t remember what love felt like, or even sadness, was a better businessman, friend, and all-around person than any other person he’s ever been.

He’s splashing on Dior Homme cologne after a shower when his hand, almost of its own volition, searches out Bart’s razor (which is maybe _too_ metaphorically resonant) and brings it to his arm. He can’t help but remember cutting himself shaving, or examining his bruises after the motorcycle crash. The way a slash of red could be the brightest thing he’d seen in so long. Chuck presses the slender tip of the blade to his skin, right at the crook of his elbow where he feels his pulse jump hot and nervous, until a bead or two of blood wells up. Nate knocks on the door and he jumps, rolls down his sleeve and calls a shaky “‘Be out in a second, Nathaniel.”

Chuck folds up the razor and puts it away. He fights back a smile: that thrum of nervous energy was the closest he’d come to feeling anything so far.

That’s how he gets the idea to put together his little one-sided Fight Club. (Not that Chuck has seen the movie— it gave off a “material possessions won’t make you happy” sort of vibe.) He places an ad on Craigslist and tells his limo driver to call the police if he doesn’t come back within three hours.

It’s embarrassing, he supposes, that what really broke him, what tunneled its way through the reinforced concrete doors he’d built around his psyche, was Blair’s pregnancy. If asked, Chuck would swear he hated kids, that they were loud and sticky and ruined otherwise lovely brunches. But really, the thought of having a child, a combination of himself and Blair, made him want to— well, made him want to actually _smile_. Which he hadn’t done since the night he’d last slept with Blair. The baby would be perfect, wouldn’t they? With dark hair and big eyes and a brain like their mother’s, hopefully.

He’s sure Blair is relieved that she isn’t carrying Bass spawn. Who would want another one of _him_ walking around? He was damaged goods and everyone knew it. _Toxic waste. Do not touch._

She asks about Monkey, and he says “I got him fixed. Seemed like the responsible thing to do.” Somehow it feels like he’s not talking about the dog.

Chuck hates Louis, not because he’s with Blair, but because Louis doesn’t need Blair to be happy. If she left him, he could go on living and feeling like a regular person. But when Chuck sits down to write the story of his life, it will begin: _So, there was this girl…_ When he fell in love with her, his vision narrowed until she was all he could see. All other options were closed to him now.


End file.
